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Authors: Colleen Thompson
Tags: Fiction
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early fifties, the county commissioner was just about deaf. Too proud to wear a hearing aid, he compensated by speaking at top volume.
“What’s on your mind?” Jay bellowed back into the phone. Anything less and Dennis would simply shout back demands that he quit mumbling.
“Saw somethin’ you might want to check out today. I was passin’ by the old Webb place…” Named for the original rancher who had abandoned it decades earlier, the adobe had attracted any number of squatters over the years—including, most recently, the artist calling herself Angelina Morningstar. “I spotted this big, new-lookin’ Expedition parked there. Drove close enough to see it was a rental, but—”
“Did you see any people?” Jay asked, at the same time praying, Please let it be Angie and whatever boyfriend she’s been off with. His mind conjured an image of himself driving herright up to the doorstep of Dana Vanover’s place, which, in his mind, was an immense, white-columned mansion. She’d come out on her crutches, then throw her arms around his neck and kiss him before tearfully reuniting with her wayward sister.
Pleasant as it was to imagine himself as Dana’s—or anybody’s—hero, it didn’t hold a candle to the dreams that had left him hard and hurting every night since meeting her.
“Didn’t spot a soul,” said Dennis. “You think that Vanover woman could be back with them protestors—or maybe some reporter?”
Dennis’s nervousness came through as loud and clear as his words. A rancher who derived most of his income from oil royalties off his land, he had put a lot of his personal money into Haz-Vestment as a show of faith in its plans. Jay felt sick to think of telling him the FBI’s suspicions. He’d been asked to keep the information to himself, since the principals had not yet been arrested. And, of course, the suspects remained innocent until proven guilty.
Bullshit. You know damned well that salt-dome project isn’t happening—and that Devil’s Claw has seen the last of Miriam Piper-Gold and her slick cronies. Pied Piper-Gold is what they ought to call that woman.
He said, “If it is Angie over there, you don’t have to worry. I promised I’d haul her troublemaking ass straight back to Houston, and I meant it. But what were you doing over by the Webb place?”
The abandoned ranch, near the dry salt flat called Lost Lake, was at least an hour away.
“Well, I…” Dennis started. “I was headin’ over to see if anybody’s been out to the salt domes. Equipment was supposed to start arrivin’ last week, but the gate across the access road’s still locked.”
Jay’s conscience gave him a swift kick. He owed the family friend who had helped get him this job when he’d been running out of options. He’d confessed to Dennis about thebridge in Baghdad and how it haunted him, even admitted to the psychiatric evaluation that he’d undergone before his relocation.
“Far as I can see, you’re a goddamned hero, not a liability.” A Vietnam vet himself, Dennis had been adamant—as well as loud enough that Jay had wished for earplugs. “Besides that, you’re R.C.’s nephew, and that’s good enough for me.”
As far as Jay knew, Dennis had kept the knowledge of his recent history to himself, bragging of the “decorated veteran” part to others. To his way of thinking, the lives Jay had saved in an earlier incident, while stationed in Fallujah, absolved him of the possibility of guilt.
“I got a call this morning, Dennis,” Jay said, “from the FBI, about Haz-Vestment.”
“What?”
Jay realized he had unconsciously lowered his voice. For good reason, too. Estelle Hooks was working late this evening, and she was known to alleviate the boredom of tax-statement preparation by eavesdropping on his conversations.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Jay promised. “You still coming by the house tonight?”
More than anyone else, Dennis had thrown himself into the job of
“What’s on your mind?” Jay bellowed back into the phone. Anything less and Dennis would simply shout back demands that he quit mumbling.
“Saw somethin’ you might want to check out today. I was passin’ by the old Webb place…” Named for the original rancher who had abandoned it decades earlier, the adobe had attracted any number of squatters over the years—including, most recently, the artist calling herself Angelina Morningstar. “I spotted this big, new-lookin’ Expedition parked there. Drove close enough to see it was a rental, but—”
“Did you see any people?” Jay asked, at the same time praying, Please let it be Angie and whatever boyfriend she’s been off with. His mind conjured an image of himself driving herright up to the doorstep of Dana Vanover’s place, which, in his mind, was an immense, white-columned mansion. She’d come out on her crutches, then throw her arms around his neck and kiss him before tearfully reuniting with her wayward sister.
Pleasant as it was to imagine himself as Dana’s—or anybody’s—hero, it didn’t hold a candle to the dreams that had left him hard and hurting every night since meeting her.
“Didn’t spot a soul,” said Dennis. “You think that Vanover woman could be back with them protestors—or maybe some reporter?”
Dennis’s nervousness came through as loud and clear as his words. A rancher who derived most of his income from oil royalties off his land, he had put a lot of his personal money into Haz-Vestment as a show of faith in its plans. Jay felt sick to think of telling him the FBI’s suspicions. He’d been asked to keep the information to himself, since the principals had not yet been arrested. And, of course, the suspects remained innocent until proven guilty.
Bullshit. You know damned well that salt-dome project isn’t happening—and that Devil’s Claw has seen the last of Miriam Piper-Gold and her slick cronies. Pied Piper-Gold is what they ought to call that woman.
He said, “If it is Angie over there, you don’t have to worry. I promised I’d haul her troublemaking ass straight back to Houston, and I meant it. But what were you doing over by the Webb place?”
The abandoned ranch, near the dry salt flat called Lost Lake, was at least an hour away.
“Well, I…” Dennis started. “I was headin’ over to see if anybody’s been out to the salt domes. Equipment was supposed to start arrivin’ last week, but the gate across the access road’s still locked.”
Jay’s conscience gave him a swift kick. He owed the family friend who had helped get him this job when he’d been running out of options. He’d confessed to Dennis about thebridge in Baghdad and how it haunted him, even admitted to the psychiatric evaluation that he’d undergone before his relocation.
“Far as I can see, you’re a goddamned hero, not a liability.” A Vietnam vet himself, Dennis had been adamant—as well as loud enough that Jay had wished for earplugs. “Besides that, you’re R.C.’s nephew, and that’s good enough for me.”
As far as Jay knew, Dennis had kept the knowledge of his recent history to himself, bragging of the “decorated veteran” part to others. To his way of thinking, the lives Jay had saved in an earlier incident, while stationed in Fallujah, absolved him of the possibility of guilt.
“I got a call this morning, Dennis,” Jay said, “from the FBI, about Haz-Vestment.”
“What?”
Jay realized he had unconsciously lowered his voice. For good reason, too. Estelle Hooks was working late this evening, and she was known to alleviate the boredom of tax-statement preparation by eavesdropping on his conversations.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Jay promised. “You still coming by the house tonight?”
More than anyone else, Dennis had thrown himself into the job of
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